


Walk With Me Through Fire

by RainyDayDecaf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Scene, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Holding Hands, M/M, No Bookshop Discorporation, Victory Snog, the power of belief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 07:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19785874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyDayDecaf/pseuds/RainyDayDecaf
Summary: For ineffable reasons, Aziraphale does not get discorporated in the bookshop.  For dramatic reasons, he is in the Bentley when Crowley drives through the M25 Ring of Fire.





	Walk With Me Through Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Stuck in a rut with my longer fics, so I wrote this in a few hours to make myself feel better. I see a lot of "Aziraphale finds the empty thermos and thinks Crowley is dead" stories, which I love, but I have yet to see anybody follow that idea through to a scene like this. Enjoy!

"What on earth is _that?_ "

"My fault, is what that is," Crowley muttered. He thumped his head on the steering wheel. "Why?" he groaned. "Why did I have to change the plans? Couldn't have just left it well enough alone, could I? Of all the roads in all the countries… I could've gone to bloody America instead and messed around with the 101, but _nooo_ …"

Aziraphale looked from Crowley to the massive wall of infernal fire blocking their way. He could sense its incredible strength even at this distance, a solid dam of seething malevolence, ready to cremate any living creature that came too near. His skin prickled from it, eyes stinging whenever he stared too long. Aziraphale knew without bothering to ask that this was not the sort of fire an angel could walk through and live to come out the other side. Even Crowley stood a fair chance of being discorporated. Aziraphale would be outright annihilated.

But the world was ending, and the only one who could stop it was on the other side of that fire.

"How… how will we get passed it?" Aziraphale asked, nervously drumming his fingers on Agnes Nutter's book in his lap. "I don't suppose we can fly over it?"

"Won't work," Crowley said. He scanned the horizon back and forth, like he was looking for something only he could see. "You know how normal fire does that updraft thing? Hellfire does the opposite, it'll suck us down no matter how high we go. Same thing if we try to dig under it. The only way out is straight through it."

Aziraphale shook his head, irritated beyond words. This day had been horrendous enough already. He had gone through a crisis of faith, nearly been discorporated in his own bookshop, then rushed all the way to Crowley's flat, intent on apologizing and begging for his help… only to find an empty tartan thermos on the desk and a pile of dark clothing on the floor. For exactly five anguished seconds, Aziraphale had lingered under the dreadful assumption that his friend had committed suicide, with the very holy water he had given to Crowley decades ago.

But thankfully, in his grief-stricken haze, he had listened to the answering machine and heard Hastur howling into the void and swearing revenge upon the serpent. Putting the pieces together, Aziraphale had booked it all the way back to Soho where he had found his bookshop _burning to the ground_ —the blasted candles, he'd thought in fury and sorrow—and Crowley drinking away his own misplaced grief at the nearest bar. It seemed they'd both experienced the fright of their life, but there had only been time for a quick hug before they were packing into the Bentley and dashing off to Tadfield.

Except now they couldn't get to Tadfield. To think, all their efforts would come to nothing because Crowley decided one day in the seventies to have a work ethic.

"Well, there must be a way," Aziraphale said decisively. He flipped open the prophecy book and started rifling through the pages. "Agnes knew everything that was going to happen, she _must_ have known about this. One of these prophecies will give us an answer."

He felt the tips of Crowley's fingers brush along the back of his neck as his friend leaned closer. "Is there an index?"

"I’m afraid not," Aziraphale said. The fingers on his neck were distracting, and he lightly swatted them away. "Look, this one is promising! 'There are other fyres than mine; when the whirlwynd whirls, reach oute one to another.'"

"It's not exactly a whirlwind though," Crowley mused. He tapped the page. "What about this? 'When the skies are crimson seen, then ye both must stand between the world of life and the world of war…'"

The fingers flirted with the hair at the nape of his neck. Aziraphale swatted them again. "Stop that, Crowley. Pay attention. The world is ending, if you hadn't noticed."

"…angel," Crowley said, suddenly going stiff beside him, "I'm not doing anything."

Aziraphale looked up, holding his gaze just long enough to confirm that Crowley's hands were nowhere near his neck. As one they turned around to look at the back seat. Aziraphale yelped and jerked away from the filthy fingers of Hastur, Duke of Hell, who had evidently escaped from Crowley's answering machine sometime in the past hour.

Hastur laughed at his reaction, teeth glistening in the light of the fire. "Funny," he said. "I thought you angels would be more impressive looking. Where's your thousand eyes and four faces? No fiery halo?"

Aziraphale shot a perturbed look at Crowley, which translated roughly to _what do we do now?_ "That, er… the extra eyes went out of style some time ago. Bit too much for humans to handle."

Crowley gave him a half shrug which Aziraphale interpreted as _I have no idea, working on it._ "How was your time in voicemail, Hastur?" he said out loud.

"It's over for you both," Hastur said, smugly settling back and nodding at the hellish barrier. "You'll never escape London. You won't stop Antichrist. And once the world ends, Crowley, you will be dragged before the Dark Council to answer for your treason. Hell will not forgive. Your days of fraternizing with angels are over."

" _Fraternizing_ , how dare you?" Aziraphale said, offended. He completely missed the double take that Crowley shot him.

"And we won't forget you either, Principality," Hastur said. He leered and shifted closer, which prompted Aziraphale to lean away even further. "Our hellhounds do like the taste of divinity. You'll be our new entertainment. You can spend the rest of eternity being ripped apart and devoured day after day, corporation after corporation—"

Crowley shifted gears and floored it. Hastur squawked when the motion threw him back, and Aziraphale braced his hand on the door as they picked up speed. He expected Crowley to turn around and look for another way out of London, and he became more and more uneasy when they kept on a straight path, directly toward the wall of fire.

"What, what are you doing?" Hastur stammered. "Stop this, you can't be thinking—"

Crowley took off his sunglasses and shoved them in his pocket. "Hey, Aziraphale," he said, ignoring the demon in the backseat. "Put on some music for us, will you?"

"M-Music, whatever for?" Aziraphale said. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the M25, breaths coming short as the temperature in the car went from stifling to boiling to scorching. He had to miracle his shoes to keep the soles from melting and sticking to the floor. "Crowley, what are you _doing?_ " he cried.

"Do you remember the fourteenth century?"

Aziraphale gaped at him and seriously considered teleporting himself out of the car if Crowley didn't stop soon. "A… a little? I don't think there was much worth remembering."

"Exactly," Crowley said with a snarl. "Terrible century, godawful. Nothing but plagues and political upheaval, sewage in the streets and all that. They didn't have any cars in the fourteenth century! You really didn't miss much holed up in that monastery…"

"Stop this!" Hastur shouted once they had outstripped the rest of the traffic, hurtling full speed at the inferno. "Stop this thing, stop it! You're mad! You'll never make it through!"

"I think he's right," Aziraphale said, remarkably calm all things considered. His friend had clearly lost his mind. He grabbed Crowley's arm, intending to transport them both somewhere else, and he was taken aback when Crowley kept one hand on the wheel and latched onto Aziraphale's hand with the other, squeezing his fingers painfully tight.

"The angel!" Hastur wailed in panic. "You'll destroy him! It's hellfire, he won't survive! Is that what you want?"

Crowley laughed maniacally, slitted eyes bugging out. "If you've gotta go, then _go with style!_ "

In the last few seconds before they hit the fire, Aziraphale closed his eyes. He expected the car and everything in it to be incinerated at once, but they held together somehow. Not for long though, Aziraphale thought with growing alarm. He could _hear_ the Bentley's frame creaking under the strain, slowly being crushed under the weight of countless grumpy motorists sinning in countless miniscule ways. He had never felt anything like it, but he imagined this must be what walking into a church was like for Crowley, all those years of piety and faith bearing down on his shoulders.

Aziraphale shuddered, choking on the reek of sulphur and charred metal. He was _burning_. His clothes, his hair, his soul, it was all a breath away from going up in smoke and ash. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He was going to _die_.

" _You're doomed, DOOMED!_ " Hastur screeched as a final parting shot before he was violently discorporated in the backseat. “ _I hate youuu!_ ”

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said. The flames around the Bentley licked at the windows, hungrily trying to get inside and devour him. He couldn't open his eyes more than a squint, the light too intense for any but a demon to behold. The only part of him that wasn't in white-hot agony was his hand, cold as ice, still linked with Crowley's above the gearshift.

"You're not going to burn."

"Crowley—"

"You're _not going to burn!_ " Crowley repeated. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, unblinking, the tendons in his neck popping out. "Don't even think it! I wouldn't bring you into this if I couldn't get you out! We'll get through, and then we're saving the world, and then I'm taking you on that damn picnic we keep putting off."

The Bentley creaked again, the black paint flaking away, the leather seats smoking. But miraculously—or perhaps demonically—they didn't explode. Aziraphale reached over with his free hand and clutched at Crowley's sleeve. He was shaking, shivering, sweating, his corporation couldn't seem to make up its mind. Mortal senses were never designed to deal with this level of spiritual trauma.

"Trust me," Crowley said through gritted teeth. "Trust me, trust me, I'll keep you alive, like I always do. _You're not going to burn!_ "

"…I believe you," Aziraphale whispered. He thought back to how Crowley had looked in the bar, slumped over a table and rambling into thin air, hopelessly drunk and vulnerable. Aziraphale had hated to see him like that and know that he was the cause. He was the reason his friend wasn't on Alpha Centauri right now, safely hidden away from any who might hurt him or drag him into the conflict between Heaven and Hell. Crowley had admitted as much before he sobered up. _Couldn't go without you_ , he had sniffled miserably into Aziraphale's shoulder.

He still owed Crowley an apology for the bandstand. Aziraphale decided that would be the first thing he did after they survived the worst day in human history.

"I trust you," Aziraphale said, then again more loudly. "But if I die here, I'll never talk to you again!"

Crowley laughed again, teetering on hysteria, and it turned into a defiant scream halfway through. Aziraphale didn't dare to look, but he thought they might have sped up _even more_. The engine roared, the tires screeched, the stereo spontaneously belted out Queen without any CDs in the tray. Crowley squeezed his hand so hard that Aziraphale thought his fingers might break.

The M25 shrieked at being denied the souls inside the car. It was like living creature, semi sentient, scratching at the windows with clawed hands and jagged teeth. Unholiness raged all around them, but Aziraphale refused to acknowledge it, kept his head bowed low and his awareness centered on Crowley at his side. An angel of God had no power here, his blessings and prayers meant nothing. Crowley held his life in his hands, just as he had so many other times before, and Aziraphale had never trusted him more than in this moment.

The Bentley erupted from the ring of fire like a literal bat out of hell, great torrents of flames streaming in their wake. Aziraphale sucked in a breath at the sight of rain and clouds and open road ahead. He could see the M25 in the rearview mirror, alight like a pool of oil with a match thrown in, receding behind them and grudgingly giving up the chase. The car was still engulfed, but their separation from the main body left the flames diminished, easily tamed and held at bay with a thought.

"Oh… oh, we're alive!" Aziraphale gasped. The giddy laughter came over him unexpectedly, left him trembling all over. Crowley joined him a split second later, their combined mirth nearly enough to drown out " _I'm in loooove with my caaaar_ " from nonexistent speakers.

"We're alive! Crowley, Crowley, you did it! You got us through, I can't believe it—"

"Now why would you _ever_ doubt me?" Crowley said, though his voice quavered enough that Aziraphale quickly pulled him into an embrace across the gearshift. Crowley let go of the wheel to return the gesture, not that either of them paid it any mind. It wouldn't be the first time the Bentley had driven itself.

Still giggling and trying desperately not to sob, Aziraphale cradled Crowley's face in his hands, taking in the soot smears and wobbly grin, the slitted eyes gradually returning to their normal size. He was sure he looked equally scruffy and out of sorts. Aziraphale doubted any number of miracles would restore his coat to its once pristine condition. All kinds of things had gone wrong today, and they hadn't even begun to address the Apocalypse.

"Angel," Crowley rasped, and Aziraphale couldn't have said why, but that broke something in him, shattered an internal barricade he hadn't known he was holding up. He would later blame it on the lingering traces of corruption from the M25, combined with the adrenaline and hormones of his corporation making him temporarily forget all propriety. Crowley would hold the ammunition over him for a century at least, constantly teasing him for being the one to make the first move, every squabble punctuated by _remember that time when…?_

But it was a small price to pay.

And in the heat of the moment, Crowley didn't seem to mind.

* * *

Officer Fred turned to his colleague once the blazing Bentley was out of sight. "What… was… was that…?"

"Right now, that's someone else's problem," Officer Julia said firmly.

"…they were _snogging_."

"Wouldn't you, after going through that?"

Officer Fred just blinked and went back to watching the fire. He was taking a long holiday after this. Maybe to Atlantis. His kids would like that. And he doubted there were any burning highways in Atlantis.


End file.
